


Trouble Breathing

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Choking, Filthy, Gratuitous Profanity, Hate Sex, M/M, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22376371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: A swift, rough and unglamourous tangle, a dirty rut in a dark office. He hated him - so he used him.They used each other.
Relationships: Ronnie Box & Endeavour Morse, Ronnie Box/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 17
Kudos: 46





	Trouble Breathing

Morse felt Box’s massive hand curl around the base of his throat, bruising and firm, gripping around the taut sinew with an intimidating pressure. His lips brushed Morse’s ear, his breath hot and steeped in whiskey and tobacco, his cologne heavy and spiced and mind clouding. Morse could feel the linked silver bracelet on his wrist dangling against his bared collarbone, the cool metal swinging against his flushed skin as Box’s body moved, back slowly - agonizing - and then thrust into him, hard and rough and fast.

Box grunted into his ear, his voice deep with satisfaction, gravel and oil and sin, “ _Fuck._ ”

Morse exhaled a low hiss as Box pulled back again and there was the gentle burn of raw friction, the twinge of discomfort that always came with it, and then the rush of heat and girth and that spark and smoulder behind his navel as he was filled. It was maddening, the pressure of Box against his back, the slap of their bodies together, the heavy swing of Box’s hips against his own. Box was like a prize bull, bulk and show, power and potency. He knew what he was about, they both knew what this was about, and they weren’t here for anything but this. Box needed someone under him, anyone likely, someone to plough. He was one step up from a neanderthal in Morse’s estimation, with only instinct to hunt and battle and fuck. And that’s what this was. Fucking. There was no love. No passion. There wasn’t even a sliver of decency. Like that prize bull, like a peak performance thoroughbred, Morse only needed him for his bollocks. A swift, rough and unglamourous tangle, a dirty rut in a dark office. He hated him - so he used him.

They used each other.

Morse’s back bent over the edge of the desk, hips trapped against the wood and his head pulled backwards by that hand on his neck, that gripping, oppressive hand, and he could feel the steel of Box’s body against his own. He could feel every flex of muscle, every devastating roll of his hips. There was something to be said for how Box moved. Fitness. He was made for athletics. Box had an iron arm clamped around Morse’s waist, the other still across his chest and locked over his throat. The position gave allusions of intimacy, firm and close like an embrace, but as with everything between these two men it was just a bit too tight - a bit too hard - a bit too rough to ever be considered affection.

Morse’s hips shifted against the edge of the desk with frustration. He was so fucking hard.

“Learnt how to shut you up, eh?” Box thrust into him again, groaning, and Morse let out a soft but abrupt cry. Box stayed buried inside of him, didn’t withdraw, as the arm around Morse’s waist shifted and tugged out his shirt and his burning, massive hand slid up Morse’s belly, scratched along his overheated skin, and found a nipple to worry with very little delicacy. It hurt, but pleasure followed the pain and shot straight to Morse's cock, still trapped and angry in his trousers and pushed against the side of the furniture.

That hand around his throat had moved up, the long fingers spreading under his chin, a couple of digits curling up against his lips and then pushing between them, until Morse was groaning and laving them with his tongue, sucking on them, and scraping his teeth with little care against the rough pads of them until Box once more exasperated with an unoriginal, “ _Fuck._ ”

With typical selfishness, Box had only yanked Morse’s trousers down enough to gain access to him. To use him. It was only enough for Morse to keep his legs apart, but he was hardly spread. The lack of thought was all part of it, the lack of care, the absence of consideration. Morse rocked his hips slightly, the fabric sliding just a bit more, giving him just a tad more freedom, but the satisfaction was minimal with the obstacles of fabric and wooden desk.

Morse swallowed hard against Box’s palm, his eyes rolled to the side to look towards the man even though he really couldn’t see him. He rasped, “Fuck you.”

And the hand on his neck moved down again, curled around his throat and squeezed. Morse groaned deeply.

“Think I’m fucking you, slag,” Box thrust again and leaned to fold over Morse’s back to groan velvet into his ear once again.

Morse felt teeth as he was split apart, as his nipples were abused once more to near bruising, and he actually cried out when he felt those teeth again, this time through his shirt and into the meat of his shoulder.

“Is that what you call this?” Morse recovered with a half-sneer-half smile and tilted his head back once more in invitation. He stretched his neck under Box’s hand, licked his lips and clenched his body, and Box shuddered and cursed as Morse looked through his lashes back at him.

Box abandoned Morse’s chest and instead buried that hand into his hair. His thick fingers sunk into Morse’s bronze curls and tightened, pulled him back, bent him near to breaking and Morse hissed and pressed his hips harder into the wood and swallowed hard. He was pulled so tight that he could feel his adam’s apple shift under the skin, feel his lungs heave, feel his heartbeat pounding all the way down to his bollocks.

“I could kill you,” Box growled at him, leaning forward with angry wet lips and bulging veins and sweat stuck hair. Where there had been a showy, teasing and posturing sort of rhythm, there was now only industrious force behind his hips. It should have been painful, should have been uncomfortable, but as Morse’s muscles stretched taut and burned, as Box’s cock drove into him over and over, he could only feel heat between them, the deep burn, that hollow place inside of him filled with animalistic need. There was fire in his veins, blood rushing to every abused bit of him. His cock was painful in its confines, the sensitive buds of his nipples now chafed raw inside of his shirt. He felt like he could split, that if Box pulled his hair hard enough, bent him backwards far enough, fucked him deep enough...

“Go on. _Do it_ ,” Morse hissed. “You couldn’t. You’re all flash. No substance,” The hand in his hair tightened and Morse let out an infuriating peal of laughter, “Bloody coward. You couldn’t.”

And Box let go of his hair and curled his big fingers around Morse’s shoulder and yanked him back against him. There was no pace now, just power and speed, no time to recover or get his bearings. He buried deep in Morse’s body, over and over, hard and fast and raw and Morse couldn’t stop himself from verbalizing it. His huffed panting mixed with the sound of their flesh slapping together, the wet stick of their bodies. He knew he wouldn’t be walking right tomorrow. He knew everything was going to hurt. But it would be worth it. That full body burn, the fire raging in him, the tight heat pooling insistently at his core were nearly overwhelming. He was on the verge of blowing in his own trousers and his vision touched white at the edges. Box hit him deep and hard and in just the right way to make his thighs suddenly tremble. Morse finally pushed back against him with a grunt, pushed back enough to finally shove his hand down into his own trousers and he practically ripped himself free to finally take his own cock in hand.

“Harder, you ignorant prick..” Morse gasped.

Box obliged.

Morse swallowed again as the fingers around his throat tightened once more. They would bruise tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d hide the faint yellowing under a high collar and and a tight tie. He’d feel it all through the day, he’d remember this moment as his air was cut off, as he thrust into his own fist, as his body was used and abused of his own will. Tomorrow he’d push the knot of his tie tight against his throat and feel it go straight to his cock, the ache of the bruise, the memory of Box drilling him into the desk, squeezing off his airway, the pleasure built to such a fever pitch that his consciousness fled completely and left him nothing but a needy, greedy creature of debauchery.

Sparks shot through Morse’s vision soon and his eyes fluttered as he gasped for breath and then, just as everything wavered and his vision went white and his lungs burned and his mind blanked out and every inch of his skin turned to one single flayed nerve, Morse came all over his own hand and the side of the desk. His body tightened and pulled and grasped and behind him Box let out a bestial sound and spilled deep inside of him. He stopped choking, stopped thrusting, just buried in Morse’s taut body and and shivered and twitched until he found his legs again and he didn’t need to lean on Morse to stay upright. Box extracted himself with little gentility and bent Morse’s limp body up towards him one more time, and this time they shared a filthy kiss. Something with tongues and teeth, inarticulate and shamefully satisfying.

Box moved away then and Morse could hear him tucking himself back up in his trousers and pouring them each a measure of whiskey. He sat himself in a chair, watching, admiring his dirty work, because Morse was too wasted to move.

Morse felt his body shiver and twitch, felt cold and moisture tickle down his thigh and he had no choice but to continue to lay on the desk on his belly, half on his own arm, because he couldn’t yet muster the strength to clean himself up. He was a mess, a throwaway lay, and he knew he looked the part as he finally shifted his knees and fixed up his trousers. No point in a clean up now, he could feel the fabric sticking to his legs, his pants clinging with his sex, but he’d worry about that when he went home.

Morse accepted the glass of whiskey from Box when he turned. He stood in the middle of the room as he sipped because he knew he couldn’t sit right now. He couldn’t even lean against the desk for fear of the raw ache of his skin. As he swallowed, he could still feel the phantom compression of Box’s hand, how close he’d been to suffocation. He still remembered the first time Box and he had words, something about Thursday, and his sharp tongue had driven Box to physicality and he’d held Morse against the wall by his throat and Morse realized how disgustingly aroused he’d been.

Box stood again, approached and stood uncomfortably close. Morse met his eyes, an unflinching stare, and Box got that cocky smirk of his. One of those hands rose to brush Morse’s neck where the red marks of compression were barely fading. Morse shivered against his will, the skin still too sore to ignore, and Box smirked more.

“Go home, _sergeant_ ,” Box purred.

It made Morse’s skin crawl but he was already thinking of the next time. When the bruises faded just enough that he forgot their inconvenience. It was a sickness, he knew, to crave the abuse hand in hand with the satisfaction. Morse tilted his glass back and drained it and the burn of the booze mixed with the heady post-sex hormones pumping through him. Another drink and he might have another go. He was tempted to throw a punch this time. See just how much damage he could do... To see how far he could push the brute...

“You look like a domestic,” Box’s hand dropped away, scratched over Morse’s chest where he could still see the perk of a nipple, and he flicked it.

Morse flinched and Box smirked cruelly.

“Don’t come in here tomorrow looking like a filthy whore,” Box stepped away, moved to his desk, and tugged out a tissue to give it’s sullied surface a quick wipe. Morse certainly hadn’t done it.

Morse watched him, watched him bend in his tight polo shirt, watched his trousers tug around his toned arse, and the way his hair fell onto his forehead as he leaned. He wanted him still.

Hated him still.

Or maybe he just hated himself.

Morse licked his lips of the last drops of whiskey, dropped his glass back to the tabletop, and turned uncomfortably for the door. The burn sent a new shiver up his spine, the pull of drying mess in his pants, the flushed and swollen parts of him all ached in unison.

He could feel it all still, would be feeling it for days.

He knew what he was about, knew what this was about, and it was exactly what he wanted.

“ _Sir_ ,” He grunted with a cold glance.

Box’s eyes narrowed in smug satisfaction.

And only then did he actually try to leave.

“Tomorrow, Morse,” Box said jovially. He was satisfied. Smug as a cat who'd got the canary. Morse could hear it.

“Hm?” Morse braced a hand on the door frame.

“Be seeing you tomorrow,” Box winked and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey I'm not entirely sure where this came from so .... yea
> 
> Title taken from [Trouble Breathing by Alkaline Trio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-RCMCe7w7o)


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